Everyone knows about that

capitol shaft in Lincoln, Nebraska,

with its climax of gold dome,

atop of which is a statue of a

shirtless farmer-man

hand-sowing grain the old way –

grain, which the brochure will tell you

is corn.

Now my family may not have been

here taming the prairie,

but I tell you what –

you hoe, you don’t sow, corn

that way;

That way’s how you sow oats or wheat,

any good Nebraska girl can tell you.

My mom saw those other Nebraska girls,

slightly slutty with a chance of accidents,

and tried to give me a scare –

I could get a disease

or cancer or I could be

ruining my life

(when AIDS got as inland as Overland Wheat,

I wondered if she felt sort of wistful

like she’d missed a *really* big stick).

I believed her well enough

to get safely off to a college

where no one grew such grain.

But when I rolled off the

airport shuttle-bus

before the wheels had really

stopped turning

there it was again:

Hoover Tower –

pink, stone column and

tiled, red dome –

Bertram Goodhue’s folly

showing me the way straight to Heaven

or somewhere a lot like it.